


A Chip On Your Shoulder

by mercureletters



Series: Have Pride in Yourself [1]
Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Brief mentions of internalized transphobia and dysphoria, Happy Ending, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercureletters/pseuds/mercureletters
Summary: Micheal didn’t want to hide it, exactly. He didn’t want to hide in the bathrooms to change clothes and put on his gear, or make up lies so he could pick up his perscription. He was just afraid. There was a lot to be afraid of when he could lose it all for being himself.





	A Chip On Your Shoulder

Micheal leaned against the bathroom stall, eyes closed. He pulled his shoulder and chest pads on, and strapped them on, only opening his eyes once he knew the pads were on for certain. All he had to do was drag his jersey on, and head for the ice with his helmet in hand. Micheal stuffed his clothing into his bag, pulled his jersey on, and unlocked the stall door. 

He carried his now light gear bag out of the bathroom and tossed it next to his stall, and took a seat. As always, Micheal came first, changed first, and looked ready to go when everyone else arrived to pull on their gear. Keith Yandle and Aleksander Barkov arrived first, neither sparing Micheal a glance until Yandle had his hockey pants and shinguards on.

"Haley," Keith lifted his head, "are you DJ today?"

Micheal leaned back, ready avert his eyes once the shirt came off. "Nope," Micheal popped the p, "I'm on next week, though. Today's DJ is supposed to be Brouwer,"

"Oh, thank God, I don't think I could stand listening to the same fifteen songs all morning," Yandle sighed, then leaned over and tied his skates.

"It's not that bad," Micheal rolled his eyes.

Yandle grabbed the tape for his socks and wound them tight, "It really is,"

"What, how bad could my music be?"

"Haley, you play the same shitty, boring songs in the same order every time we go out. I hate it,"

"I love those songs!"

"Haley, if you start singing, I will kill you. You sound like a dying frog,"

Micheal laughed from how true it was, but he noticed that Barkov gave him a weird look. Micheal shrugged and dug his phone out of his bag, his mouth too dry to respond to that. The look cut Micheal open, the confused, judging gaze hot on his skin. If they weren't teammates and Barkov wasn't his captain, Micheal wouldn't care so much. Maybe it would, though, because the look reminded him of someone thinking cold, blunt thoughts that they wanted to speak of.

He'd heard the thoughts throughout his high school years, and he didn't want to hear them again.

"Haley," Barkov's voice cut through the air, even as everyone began to filter into the room, "if you want, you can go now,"

Micheal tossed his phone into his bag, shoved his red binder to the bottom of his bag underneath the rest of his clothes, and got up. "Sure, Barky, I'll see you all out there,"

Micheal almost commented on the fact that Barkov had gotten dressed remarkably fast, with only his elbow pads and jersey left to put on, but he kept his mouth shut. Micheal left just as he caught a glimpse of Yandle's stomach. Good. He didn't think he'd be able to focus if he saw. Micheal would be too busy trying not to turn green with envy and nausea.

As Micheal stepped out onto the ice, he took a lap and sang to himself, nonsensical and out of key. A grin snuck onto his lips. Then, he dropped down in the center of the ice and stretched out his legs, his stick clutched tight in his gloves. The tension in his legs pulled, and _oh, yes_ , it felt amazing. He pushed up into something resembling a seal, hips down on the ice as he arced up and stretched his back.

Someone showered him with snow, and Micheal would be mad if he didn't hear the next words. "Oh my God, Hales, sorry,"

"Hey, it's Florida," Micheal opened his eyes to see Hawryluk and wiped ice off of his upper lip with a grin, "We gotta keep cool somehow, right?"

Just as Micheal hoped, Hawryluk smiled and laughed. "Mind if I join you for stretches?"

"Sure, why not? The more the merrier, eh?" Micheal pushed his leg out to the side, away from Hawryluk, and savored the quiet ache as his muscles loosened. Hawryluk dropped down across from Micheal and imitated him.

After a minute, Hawryluk rolled his shoulders, "So, you and Barky have something going on?"

"Huh?" Micheal paused in his new pose, one leg under him and the other pushed back, "What are you talking about?"

Hawryluk frowned, "You mean you didn't notice him staring at you the past couple practices?"

"He's been staring at me?"

"Last game, he spent most of his bench time watching you, and the past practices, he's been watching you,"

Micheal opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then shut it. He forced a smile and shook his head, but his eyes focused on Barkov's form in the doorway to the practice rink. Barkov, watching him? Micheal tried to keep his head, but his worries hit him hard.

Despite every instinct in his body screaming against it, he stayed on the ice. Practice came and went, but Micheal purposely put at least a full five feel between himself and Barkov at all times through it. He paired himself off with the first person he saw, even when he knew Barkov had taken steps to approach him. He'd even gone as far as crossing the ice to work with Yandle. As Micheal met Barkov's narrowed eyes, he wondered if Barkov knew the truth.

* * *

For two weeks, Micheal dodged Barkov, but tonight, he didn't bother to rush ahead of the rest of the team or leave in secret. Micheal hollered on his way into the locker room, entangled with his linemates. It had been a long game, but the Panthers had won! Sceviour had scored twice, the game had been a shutout for Luongo, the Ducks were suffering in their own failures in their own arena, and the air sung of excitement. Micheal slapped Luongo on the back a few times, then slung his arm around Sceviour and Hawryluk again, grinning. They all laughed out loud, bumped back and forth.

"That last goal was a beauty, Sceviour!" Micheal shook Sceviour.

Sceviour grinned, "You guys set it up, that was all you and Hawryluk,"

Hawryluk just grinned and laughed, eyes smiling just as much as his lips. Micheal savored the warmth of his teammates, though he thanked the chest padding, grateful that Hawryluk and Sceviour couldn't tell there was a difference between him and them. After a few more shakes, laughs, and hugs, Micheal pulled away. On his walk to his stall, Micheal hummed a tune. He grabbed his bag off the bench and headed toward the bathroom.

"Changing in the bathroom again, Hales?" Ekblad called out.

Micheal froze, but grinned and waved a hand, "Yeah," Micheal turned his head towards Ekblad and waggled his eyebrows, determined to make this a joke, "you wanna come with me?"

"You gotta tell me how that superstition started sometime," Ekblad slumped back into his stall, "it's weird!"

Micheal relaxed and picked up a slow gait, "I'm just making up for Lu not having superstitions, man," 

Once Micheal got into the bathroom, he tossed his bag onto the floor and pulled off his skates, shinpads, hockey socks, hockey pants, and his jersey. He waited to take off his chest and shoulder pads, not ready to deal with seeing underneath. Instead, he shimmied into his jeans, his back pressed into the side of the stall. Only when he had his jeans, regular socks, and shoes on did he dare to pull the velcro of his chest pad. 

The gear came off in one piece, and he let it clatter onto the floor. Micheal kneeled down, and searched his bag for a binder. He always kept a full torso one in Panthers red to match the red shirts he ripped so many v-neck in using his bare hands and occasionally scissors, but he also had a binder in black that didn't cover his midsection. As he felt the fabric of one of his binders, he fished it out, and found he'd be wearing black for the interview. He drug the black Panthers t-shirt out of the bag, and wriggled his way into his equally black binder, grateful no one would hear him cursing in his hotel room when he had to take it back off.

Just as he finally got into his binder, Micheal tensed when he heard a knock on the stall door. "Haley?" Barkov's voice floated in.

Oh god, Barkov... Micheal knew Barkov knew, or at least suspected, Barkov just needed definitive proof. If Barkov told the league, no amount of explanation that Gary Bettman allowed him in would save him. He'd be thrown away like trash, and the likelihood any league would take Micheal would die.

Micheal chastised himself silently for the spiral that happened any time he considered coming out. This was Aleksander Barkov, not some guy who threw slurs in the locker room every other minute as if slurs were sentence enhancers, like he'd experienced in New York and in the AHL. If someone would try to make a big deal of him, it probably wouldn't be Barkov. Probably. Micheal took a deep breath, pulled on his black t-shirt, and opened the door to come face to face with Barkov. 

Barkov took a step back, and eyed Micheal's bag, "Haley, can we talk?"

"What, no 'hi, Haley, good game, nice forechecking' or anything?" Micheal grinned, "Cold, Barky,"

Barkov frowned. "This is important, Haley. Look, it's after the game, so why don't we go to your room and talk, and then you can sleep,"

"About what, exactly?"

"We can talk about it when we get there,"

That didn't sound ominous at all. Micheal nodded, despire the fact that he had no intention of confessing the truth. The time flew as the Panthers went to their hotel rooms, Micheal grateful for his solitary one but unable to relish in the fact he had a room to himself again as Barkov followwd him into his room. Once Barkov left, Micheal would take his binder off and relish being able to breathe and not worry about being outed at the same time.

Well, if Barkov didn't out him to the team.

As the door shut, Micheal turned around and spoke first. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

Barkov didn't answer, instead opening Micheal's small hotel fridge and pulling out a pair of beers. "Drink?"

Micheal shook his head. "I, uh, don't drink that much. Only when I'm out with the others,"

"Alright, then," Barkov set one beer back into the fridge and closed it, then popped his cap off on the counter. Micheal swore Barkov's hands were shaking a little bit. "I know you're avoiding me,"

Micheal shrugged and meandered towards the window, "I guess. I mean, you've been weird. Staring at me and shit,"

"For a good reason," Barkov took a sip of his drink, then set it down and stepped a bit too close, "I know what's going on, Haley,"

"Do you?" It was more challenge than a question.

"I do," Barkov rested a hand on Micheal's upper arm, a comforting brush, "and it's okay. We're all here for you, everyone on the Panthers is here for you,"

Micheal's throat tightened, and he tried to find the words to thank Barkov, apologize, let out some of the pressure, but all that came out was, "Oh,"

"It doesn't matter to us," Barkov promised, "You've done so much to protect us, and teach us to protect ourselves. Earlier this year, that disappearance of yours, we know these things happen to players too often,"

Wait, what? Micheal's expression turned from soft to pure confusion. What in the world was Barkov talking about? How many transgender players could there have been? Then, the realization settled in, and Micheal's shoulders slumped. A thick blanket of exhaustion fell over him, and all he could think about was kicking Barkov out of his room. Knowing this wasn't safety, Micheal didn't feel safe so close to Barkov.

"Barky," Micheal couldn't stop the tired tone in his voice as he took a step back, into the wall, which scared him just a little bit, "what are you trying to say about me?"

"You have depression," There was a hint of confusion, "Changing in the bathroom, the avoidance, always covering up, that disappearance, I'm worried about you,"

"That's, that's really not the problem,"

"Then what is the problem?"

Barkov stepped in close again. That's when it hit Micheal. His back was to the wall, he was in a corner, the bed blocked him from a clean exit, Barkov had him caged in with his body. Suddenly, for the first time in a long time, Micheal realized how big Barkov was, how he and Micheal were the same weight class, how Micheal had to tilt his head back to look at Barkov because of the five inch height difference, and oh God, the things that could happen to him if he said the truth... Barkov had him cornered, asking questions he shouldn't, with Micheal unable to move to protect himself properly, and _Micheal was alone_. If that didn't scream dangerous to every instinct he'd learned in his life, nothing did.

"Barkov," The words came through Micheal's teeth, a false cheer to his tone, "You should go get some sleep," 

"Haley, I'm-"

"You _really_ should go,"

The crushing shadow pulled off Micheal, and Barkov took a large step back without another word. He just gave a slow nod, took his beer, and went straight to the door. As soon as Barkov was gone, Micheal pushed himself off the wall, grabbed a chair, and locked the door, shoving the chair in front of it precariously, so that it would fall over. If anyone came in by having the door unlocked, it would make so much noise that he'd wake up.

Once Micheal had writhed out of his binder and shirt, he flopped out onto the bed, put a sweatshirt on the bed beside him in case someone came in, and checked his phone. The single text from Barkov went unread, as he deleted the notification. Micheal didn't want to know right now. He'd apologize for kicking Barkov out some other time, but tonight, he needed to calm down from that. He wished he weren't so worried about the potential for physical harm, but it was for the best that he protected himself.

* * *

For a while, his push worked. He scared Barkov off with his fearful reaction, and didn't get questioned for it. Life went on, a life where he checked people, passed pucks, and otherwise put other players on a razor's edge with anxiety of being flattened by him. They played home games and away games, and that was okay, with an average amount of wins and losses, with one overtime game for both categories. He got into a scrap with some Bruin- Micheal never bothered to learn their names, aside from the top line and their angry goaltender- and almost got into it with several more. He changed in the bathroom and played his bad music and no one except Barkov seemed to know there was something wrong.

Now, in the middle of Pittsburgh, Micheal wanted to punch himself in the face for being an idiot.

Micheal was supposed to be at team breakfast an fifteen minutes ago, downstairs at the hotel breakfast area. Instead, he rummaged through his hockey bag with eyes wide, stomach turning. Where the fuck was his red binder? He tried to think to the last time he saw it, and his throat tightened. He'd taken it off in the away team locker room after they'd lost last night, gone home in the big red sweatshirt he'd packed, but had he remembered to put it in his bag?

Why did he have to be such an idiot? If one of his teammates found it, there would be no doubt as to whose it was. Would it be better or worse if a member of the Penguins or their staff found it? Maybe one of them thought it was an abandoned tank top and threw it away. Micheal would hate to lose it, since that meant he wouldn't be able to get away with wearing the hand-torn v-neck shirt he loved so much until he bought a new one, but being outed would be worse. He'd wear his black binder if he had a shirt clean that it wouldn't show through.

Then, he heard the talking outside his door. Barkov and Huberdeau, if Micheal recognized them right. Huberdeau's voice came through the door, "Hales, you coming down for breakfast?"

"Shit," Micheal whispered to himself, then called out, "I'll be out in a second!"

Micheal pulled on two random t-shirts, one of them smelled like beer so he must have worn it, and dragged on the red Panthers sweatshirt he'd worn the night before. His hair wasn't properly combed out and styled, so the top of his hair laid on the shaved sides of his head. Micheal rushed to the door, pushing the chair away from the door and accidentally letting it clatter to the floor. Micheal left it there and opened the door, darted it out and slammed it closed.

"Barky, Huby, hey!" Micheal's voice cracked, the loud slam too loud in the quiet hall, "Sorry, I overslept!"

Huberdeau raised his eyebrows and raked his gaze over Micheal. "You never oversleep," The words were light, teasing, but guarded at the same time, "You up late or something?"

"First time for everything," Micheal lied. "Now, breakfast," 

Though Barkov's eyes followed Micheal with suspicion, they began down the hall and to the elevator. Barkov scrutinized every step Micheal took, or at least, it felt like it. Halfway down the hallway, Huberdeau wordlessly slipped behind them, then pushed himself into the space between Micheal and Barkov. Huberdeau, he'd played a game with pride tape before, and Micheal knew Huberdeau and Ekblad shut down any attempt to use a slur in the locker rooms. Micheal almost felt safe.

Once they reached the elevator, Huberdeau tugged Micheal's sleeve to stop him, and smiled bright at Barkov, "We'll be down in a second. I forgot something in my room,"

"Do you want me to wait, or," Barkov began, but Huberdeau shook his head. Barkov gave a shrug and disappeared into the elevator, the doors closing once he pushed the button for the first floor.

Micheal tensed, not exactly afraid of a man twenty pounds lighter than him, but still unsure, "You didn't forget anything, you know,"

"I know," Huberdeau dropped the smile, "Haley, is everything okay? 

Micheal smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes, "Yeah, it's great,"

"Are you sure? I know Barky's been keeping a close eye on you," Huberdeau wrapped an arm around his shoulder, "but if there's a problem, I hope you'll tell us, even if the problem is Barkov himself,"

Without really thinking about it, he pressed into the space against Huberdeau, the arm around him comfortable, "It's really nothing, I swear. Barkov's being weird, but it's harmless,"

"Hales, you protect us a lot. We just want to be the ones to protect you if you need it,"

"I'll be okay. Thanks for worrying, Huby," 

"What's a teammate for, right?"

Being under Huberdeau's arm felt somewhat nice. Micheal didn't like being shorter than his fellow players, but being cared about and actively reminded of it was nice. The warm, soft skin on the back of his neck soothed Micheal's worries, a sort of protective energy to it. Huberdeau was a bit soft, a bit understanding, just the right amount of weight on him.

He noticed Huberdeau didn't unloop his arm from Micheal's shoulder when the elevator took them down. He led Micheal to the table, and Micheal noticed the only open seat was between Ekblad and Huberdeau. Micheal slid into the seat, and pushed his legs apart to imitate the others.

The chorus of "Hales!" and "Haley!" put a smile on Micheal's lips, and he caught an everything bagel that Hawryluk tossed to him from the other side of the table. As he munched away, slouched in his chair, he considered how much he cared about preserving this nonsense. Micheal loved the way Yandle leaned over to mutter something into Weegar's ear, getting a laugh, or how Malgin poked and prodded Hoffman until he grinned. He liked to watch his teammates, remind himself of why he fought so hard every game.

"Someone looks like he's in a better mood than he was upstairs," Huberdeau gave a smile, chunks of egg in his teeth.

Micheal choked back a snort, "Uh, yeah, I just- I lost something last night at the Pens locker room,"

"Whatever it is would be gone now, Hales," Huberdeau gave him a sympathetic pat, "sorry,"

Micheal shrugged with a smile. Now that his heart had calmed down, in the presence of his team, he didn't mind so much. He could order another and just not wear his favorite shirt for a couple weeks. "By the way, Huby? You got a little something in your teeth,"

"A little something in my-" Huberdeau pulled out his phone and checked with the camera, "Oh my God. That's not a little, Haley!"

Micheal snapped a quick photo of his teeth, "I'm showing this to any girlfriends you get, man,"

"Oh, fuck you, don't!"

"Pay me,"

Huberdeau almost laid on top of Micheal, but Micheal was undoubtedly stronger. He pushed Huberdeau away, arms reaching for the phone as Micheal held it over Ekblad's head. Ekblad ducked and shoved his hands against Micheal's stomach to tickle him, and Micheal dropped his phone. Huberdeau caught it and deleted the picture with a grin while Micheal writhed, kicking Ekblad in the leg by mistake.

Ekblad finally stopped, a small girn on his face, "Success,"

"You traitor!" Micheal gave a lighter kick to Ekblad's leg, but he couldn't stop an actual laugh from popping out. 

Huberdeau popped the phone back onto the table, and Micheal scooped it up. Moments like these... Weren't these exactly what Micheal was trying to protect when he was on the ice? The sound of laughter still alive after a bad game, even if it hurt? These moments made the secrets okay, made it easy to breathe. It made the idea of going back to the home ice against the Lightning bearable.

As much as the dysphoria would dig into Micheal later, for now, he could live without a binder. His ribs needed a break anyhow. Micheal just wanted to enjoy this moment, the way Ekblad's shoulder dug into his back as Micheal rested on him, Huberdeau making innocent chirps about Micheal's singing. Naturally, Micheal took that as a reason to belt out two Cascada songs before Yandle hucked a biscuit at him.

* * *

Thunder managed to boom over the chatter of the hockey crowd, the rain outside a misery.

Micheal had been done with that Paquette guy since this game started, but after that nasty hit on Barkov, Micheal couldn't wait to tear him apart. He snarled to himself, blood boiling under his skin and his fists clenched. Where was the whistle blow? Barkov was limping off the ice!

"Bob," Micheal turned to his old friend, his coach, "Can I?"

Bob gave a nod, "Barkov comes off, you go on, don't show thirteen any kindness," 

Barkov staggered onto the bench, and he limped toward the doctor to get checked briefly. Micheal patted his shoulder just before he got onto the ice. He usually didn't skate very fast, but this was a fight, he wouldn't be on long. Micheal sprinted across the ice, blocked Paquette's shot on the goal with his shoulder by accident, and immediately turned to Paquette.

"Hey, asshole," Micheal shoved Paquette, "we're going to fight, now,"

Paquette blinked at him, and started skating backwards, "I think we already know I'm not fighting you. We've done this, what, three times this season? You know I'm not going to,"

"That wasn't a fucking question. Protect yourself, or get your ass kicked," Micheal threw his stick and gloves down, and lunged to get his jersey.

Paquette dropped his gloves, eyes wide with surprise, but caught Micheal's jersey and tried to pin his arm. Micheal shook him loose, then punched Paquette in the jaw. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear whistles blowing and the referees yelling at him, but the world narrowed down to how much he wanted revenge on Paquette for bringing Barkov pain and the man in front of him. He swung until he knew there would be a black eye, until he knew for certain there would be a lesson learned. The few blows he'd taken stung dully, more an afterthought than anything. He got ready to drag Paquette down for a takedown, but something caught his attention.

"Haley!" That voice sounded so familiar, one he'd listened to and deferred to before, "let him go!" 

Micheal instinctively let go before he remembered that was the voice of Callahan, who was not his Rangers captain anymore, but a Lightning, just a little too late. Paquette managed to get Micheal in the jaw, and Micheal latched back on and hurled Paquette onto the ground in a takedown. The referees dragged them apart, and Callahan skated over to Micheal.

"Haley," Callahan gave a laugh, "I can't believe that works on you still,"

Haley rubbed his jaw, "You know you just violated an unspoken rule of not fucking with former teammates, right?"

"Yeah, but you'll forgive me over a drink and some food, maybe video games at your place? We don't have another game for a few days," Callahan tempted him, but when he patted Micheal on the chest, he paused, "Did your pads just..."

Micheal shuddered, shoved him away, and skated to the penalty box. Micheal's teammates never touched his chest, just his arms and shoulders, so Micheal never thought that the softness of his breasts would be an issue with chest pads on. Micheal hunched into himself, and he watched Yandle yelling at Callahan for something until the ref dragged Yandle back.

More importantly, Micheal could see the way his teammates were looking at him across the bench. The furrow of certain players' brows, Barkov's growing look of concern now that he'd returned, and the teammates on the ice were all giving Callahan dirty looks and vemonous words. 

Once the five minutes were up, it turned out Micheal's reaction had turned him into a giant bullseye. Everyone seemed to go for the collarbone and chest when checking him, and it did hurt, but it left his head swimming. Micheal had enough. He wanted off the ice, he wanted to get out of here, now. In fact, he couldn't wait for the last ten minutes of the game where Bob would insist that the fourth line stay on the bench. Trying to get back to the bench after he got off the penalty and did a hybrid shift with the penalty kill was hell.

As Micheal stepped on the bench, he heard Barkov ask, "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," Micheal wasn't lying, but he couldn't say it was the truth when he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

Barkov pressed him, "Did Callahan say something to you?" 

"No," Micheal clenched his jaw.

"Haley, you're pale, are you sick?"

The questions kept coming, from more than just Barkov. Everyone seemed to fuss over his reaction, that split second impulse he wished he'd suppressed. Micheal just repeated the word "no" to every question, tuned them out after the twentieth. Micheal's job was to protect his team, not to be protected. Technically he'd done that, but the fuss over one shudder, one upset shove, had killed any pride he'd had in protecting Barkov.

When the game ended, Panthers victorious by one goal, Micheal ducked out without thanking Luongo. He prayed no one noticed his absence.

Micheal threw on whatever clothes he found first, not bothering to consider the colors or the fashionability, then disappeared out the door and hurried to the parking lot. He thought he'd changed soon enough that no one would notice he'd left. The others weren't even in the locker room when he left. All Micheal could think was that Barkov ducked into the bathroom to try to talk to him, only to see he wasn't there. Barkov had caught Micheal just before he could open his car door, Barkov still in his gear, walking on his solid skate covers. His ungloved hands wrapped around the scruff of Micheal's jacket.

"Haley," Barkov's voice sounded louder, angrier that it actually was, "Haley!" 

Micheal shoved Barkov away, just hard enough to make him let go, "Don't touch me!"

"We need to talk," Barkov's hand reached out to grab the front of his shirt, but he stopped short and grabbed Micheal's sleeve instead.

Micheal snorted. "Again? God, leave me the fuck alone, Barkov, you haven't left me alone for weeks!"

"Haley," Barkov used that dark tone of his that left no room for argument, even with his accent, "I think you need to have captain time. Come with me,"

Micheal wanted to refuse. He wanted to be alone, curse Barkov, tell him to stop digging into him. Instead, he sighed and nodded. The trek back to the locker room was the last one he wanted to take, even if they were spiking the ball. He waited outside of the doors for several minutes while Barkov, and Micheal considered ditching him.

No, he couldn't. If he left now, the mild concern from the other team members would get out of hand. This was where things would come to a head. Micheal would dig his heels in, make Barkov understand, or at least try. If he didn't, everyone would be guaranteed to find out and reject him.

The team left in a steady stream, one or two at a time, each looking at Micheal with worry. Even Huberdeau had pity in his eyes. Micheal hated it. When Barkov finally came out in his clothes, Micheal trailed behind him in silence. Micheal went to open his car door, but a surprisingly soft hand wrapped around his wrist.

"What?" Micheal frowned at him.

Barkov's voice came soft, as if Micheal were glass, "Hales, you're shaking,"

"I am?" He turned his eyes to his hand, and found that it was shaky. "Oh. I am,"

Barkov tugged Micheal along gently, step by step to the passenger side of Barkov's car. Micheal found himself climbing in, hands braced on the dash. "I'm okay,"

"Sure you are," Barkov sounded like he was patronizing him, "I'll drive you home, there's no practice tomorrow so you can just go get your car then,"

Barkov climbed into the driver's side of the car, and shut the door. He buckled himself in, then took a long look at Micheal, who hesitated before he mimicked Barkov's action. Barkov turned the key and took the road that would lead to Micheal's house.

After a few minutes of driving, windshield wipers clearing rain from the windshield a few times every minute, Barkov said, "We should put on some music. I have a CD, in the console,"

"Sure," Micheal opened the console, and pulled out a white envelope and pulled a blank disc out. He plugged it in, and pressed play.

Micheal took pause when the music started. That sounded a lot like The Tragically Hip. After a few seconds into the song, he realized that it was The Tragically Hip, that Barkov had chosen to download one of the bands that he always complained about Micheal playing. He remained silent through the song, followed by a Cascada song that he also ignored, staring out into the rain. These were Micheal's favorite songs. In fact, Barkov expressed his hatred for these songs repeatedly. Wht would he have this kind of music to play?

Barkov slowed the car down and pulled over. "You aren't singing. What's wrong, if it isn't depression?" Barkov parked the car on the grass alongside the road, lightning flashing at the same time he turned on the inside light of the car, "Are you taking drugs? If that's what's wrong, Haley, we can help. You just have to let us in,"

Oh. Barkov put up with these songs in hopes Micheal would sing or hum along like he always did. Micheal hadn't even realized it was a big deal.

"I'm not on drugs, or hurt," Micheal shut down the thoughts first, "I do have something bothering me, though, I just," He glanced out the window into the dark nighttime rain, "I do have something wrong,"

"Then what's wrong?"

Thunder rumbled, hidden under the pop music. Micheal's heart thumped in his throat. It all came down to this. All of his work and time boiled down to this one moment. He couldn't run away now. Micheal took a breath and looked away, away from Barkov, away from the potential judgement. Micheal ran a hand through his hair, considered his options as they sat on the side of the back road. Unless Micheal got out of the car and ran, he couldn't get away. Then again, if Barkov hated him, maybe he'd take advantage of him running. The rain thrummed on the room almost as fast as his heart raced in his chest.

"Are you going to answer my question?" Barkov's eyes reflected worry.

Micheal clenched his fists, "Barkov," His voice hushed itself despite his best attempts to seem loud and brave, "I don't want to talk about it,"

"We need to, Haley," Barkov let go of the wheel and turned to Micheal, "If you say it's not depression, that it isn't an injury, and it isn't drugs, then what's so wrong that you have to hide from us? What are you so ashamed of?"

Was Micheal ashamed? With how badly he was handling this, he wondered if, maybe, he was. Micheal swallowed, tried to get his voice, but he cracked out the first syllable of his two words so soft that he could barely hear himself. He stopped himself when that crack happened. Barkov leaned toward him slightly, elbow rested on the console. The words had to be said. He knew they did. Whatever happened next, Micheal had to tell him.

"It's just that," The shy, quiet tone stayed, so uncharacteristic, "Barkov, listen, I..." Micheal's heart beat loud, "I'm," his pulse beat  heavy in his ears as the words came out, barely audible over the music, "I'm trans,"

Micheal's pulse raised as he watched Barkov. Barkov's expression turned blank, eyes losing all sympathy and his brow pressed down. He pressed his hands against the steering wheel. He turned the music off. Micheal stood his ground, every muscle in his body tense. He dropped his gaze, unable to bear to see one of the people he cared about furious at him for something he couldn't control. Needles pressed into every inch of his skin with every breath.

"Haley," Micheal stared at the glove box, so close that Barkov could touch him, "who knows?"

Micheal recited the list by heart. He sounded so much smaller than he ever had before. "My parents, my brother, Gary Bettman, and the medical staff," Then he hesitated, "and, you,"

"Hales, look at me," Barkov's voice didn't leave room to argue, but Micheal didn't look at him.

He swallowed hard. "Look, if you want me out of the league, I get it. I'll go. Just give me the time to pack up and I'll just stop showing up,"

"Oh," There was an unmistakable pain to Barkov's voice, "Oh, Haley,"

Before Micheal could understand the pain in Barkov's voice, he found his mouth buried against Barkov's shoulder, the center console digging into his ribs. Arms wrapped around him so tight he could barely breathe. For a moment, Micheal froze. What was this? Where was the anger? The disgust? Then, his breath hitched, and his vision blurred. He sucked in his breath, arms wrapped around Barkov in return. Suddenly the moment was void of fear, and all Micheal could feel was wanted, clear and plain and _so accepting_ , everything that he hadn't expected.

Barkov's chest rumbled as he spoke soft and low, "You don't have to go, I promise no one will make you go. Stay here. I'm so sorry for making you say that when you weren't ready,"

Micheal nodded, but he savored this moment. He swallowed, then asked, "I really can stay?"

Barkov leaned back, the car light harsh on his face but unable to push away the apologetic affection, "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it,"

"Barky," Micheal took a deep breath and sighed, "I'm sorry for avoiding you, and pushing you away," 

Barkov waved it off, "I pushed you when it wasn't right. You were happy until I did. And, if you were worried, I won't tell anyone unless you say its okay,"

Micheal nodded with a grin. His body warmed, heartbeat sweet and slow. A weight he never noticed lifted off of his back. Micheal was _trans_ , and Barkov didn't hate him. In fact, Barkov never seemed so loving. As Barkov took the car out of park, Micheal turned the music back on, and sang along the entire way to his house. 

Micheal knew he'd have to deal with his teammates' fussing for a few days, but in the end, things would be okay. Everything would be. 


End file.
